


Antiacousticophobia

by misbegotten



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Could she really sleep with someone prettier than herself?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antiacousticophobia

**Author's Note:**

> Mild spoilers for "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" and "The Leadership Breakfast"
> 
> Jen's The Off-Ramp (aka the unconventional couple and "the old single bed hotel room cliche" story) got me thinking.... Thanks to Karen and Jill for the improbable award brainstorming.

CJ Cregg briefly considered wrapping the phone cord around Sam Seaborn's neck and giving it a good yank. "This is not funny."

"It's a little bit funny." Sam folded a pillow in half and used it as a ledge. He was stretched out on the double bed. His tie was undone. He looked remarkably comfortable.

She replaced the phone in its cradle, and considered telling him to get his shoes off the puke green bedspread. "No. It is not funny in the least. Not funny at all. So incredibly not funny that it's... it's..."

"Not funny?"

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam shut up.

She glared at the non-responsive phone directory. "No car, no other hotel rooms. Not even pizza delivery in twenty minutes or less. Whose bright idea was it to schedule a basketball tournament and a dentists' convention on the same weekend in this middle of nowhere town?"

Sam practiced shutting up.

"We were supposed to be at Josh's thing sixty-three minutes ago," CJ continued, warming to her one-woman monologue. "And your car had to pick seven on a Friday evening to break down?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.

"What the hell are we going to do now?" She staggered slightly as she kicked off her high heels with more force than necessary. "Sam, I asked you a question."

He pointed to the television. "Watch the game?" At her look, he scooted over on the bed and patted the spot next to him. "Look, we'll get the car fixed in the morning. And Josh can get his Man of the Year award from the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Citizens without us."

"Preservation of National Monuments," CJ corrected, flexing her toes against the stubbled carpet. "Obviously they don't know that he did his best to burn down the White House."

"Hey, I helped too."

CJ sat in the space he'd made for her, and nudged him sharply with an elbow. "Why is the Society for the Preservation of National Monuments giving Josh an award, anyway?"

He rearranged his pillow, punching it into shape. "A more pertinent question would be why is the Society for the Preservation of National Monuments giving Josh an award in Maryland. Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

"You are such an infant sometimes."

"You are so..." She shot him a dark look, but he just smiled. "Beautiful sometimes. Really CJ, you look stunning in that dress. A real knockout."

"You wrestle adjectives for a living, and that's the best you can do?" She transferred the glare to the bed. If she watched closely, she'd probably be able to track the faded green of the bedspread leeching the shine out of her emerald velvet.

"I'm off duty."

"Well, that's the problem isn't it? If we were still at work, this never would have happened." She rolled off the bed and wiggled for a moment, then stopped when she caught his raised eyebrow. "This dress, as stunning as it may look, is remarkably uncomfortable." Surveying their cramped quarters with little enthusiasm, she considered the prospect of televised basketball. "I'm going to take a shower."

When she emerged from the bathroom half a minute later, Sam had the TV on, his shoes off, and was browsing the room service menu. "What?" he protested, at her look.

"I need some help."

"Help? In the shower? I'm not sure that --."

A smile, her first real one of the evening, emerged. "Not in the shower, you idiot." CJ turned her back to him. "I need you to unzip me."

"How did you get into a dress that you can't get out of?"

She pointed insistently to the fabric at the back of her neck, where the zipper remained sheathed. "It's a girl secret, Sam. I'd tell you, but then you'd start shaving your legs and plucking your eyebrows."

"How do you know I don't already?"

She waited while he scrambled off the bed. The dress was both stunning and agonizing, like most good evening wear. It was not, however, well suited for standing on the side of the road, watching Sam smudge his shirt cuffs while pretending to have the slightest clue what to do about the recalcitrant engine. It also stood out rather sharply in the garish orange and brown of the Worst Western's lobby, drawing a half leer from the desk clerk as he insisted that there were no other rooms in town. The next time Josh had an awards dinner, he could definitely --

An involuntary shiver surprised her. Sam's fingers were warm against her neck, as he took her hair in one hand and twisted it forward, towards her face. She was acutely aware of his hand moving to her shoulder, and the slight pressure there as he held her in place while loosening the teeth of the zipper. She sensed his head move down and, for a moment of lunacy, thought he was going to kiss her shoulder as the dress slipped forward.

"Can I get you something?"

"Huh?" CJ blinked, and raised a hand to her chest to hold the fabric in place.

Sam stepped back, and sat heavily on the bed. "From room service. Can I get you something to eat?"

"Oh. Um, a chicken salad?" She didn't turn around; her cheeks were hot. Idiot.

"Right," he answered, and rolled over to retrieve the menu.

***

The shower washed away the worst of her irritation. She had just shut off the water when there was a slight tap on the door, and she froze.

"I have a gift," Sam spoke through the door.

"A new transmission for your car?" She cursed inwardly at the skimpy hotel towel as she wrapped it around her. When she'd opened the door slightly, a hand appeared. Bearing gifts, even, in the form of a t-shirt. "Who or what are Dead Milkmen?"

"The desk clerk dragged it out of lost and found. I thought you might want something that didn't require pantyhose as an accessory."

CJ chuckled as she nudged the door shut. Thank god she'd actually worn underwear with said pantyhose, she reflected. And the former owner of the shirt, whoever it had been, had either been very large, or routinely dressed in circus tents. Transferring the towel to her wet hair, she escaped the now-oppressive steam of the bathroom.

Sam had stripped to his undershirt, but was still wearing his dress pants, minus socks. He gestured to a covered plate on the minuscule table by the window, and chewed on a french fry from his own dinner.

"Sam, what is this?"

"Chicken salad." He turned the sound down on the television with the remote.

She stepped over to the bed and stole one of his french fries. "I didn't say chicken salad. I don't like chicken salad."

"You did," he protested. "I heard you."

"A chicken salad," she corrected, snatching another fry. "You know, lettuce, chicken, a salad with chicken in it?"

He looked puzzled. "Chicken salad is not the same thing as chicken salad?"

She sat down on the bed, bunched the t-shirt around her knees, and commandeered his plate. Sam glanced at her, then without comment went around the other side of the bed, took the plate from the table, and bit into the sandwich.

"Not bad," he said around a mouthful. He stood, chewing, and returned his attention to the TV.

"Are you planning on sleeping in those?" CJ asked, indicating to his pants with her elbow. "I think your dry cleaner would object."

He smiled slightly. "I was waiting."

"Waiting for?"

"For you to tell me it's okay to take off my pants."

She swallowed another fry. "Sam," she said solemnly, "please take off your pants."

***

The ceiling had square tiles, twelve of them over the space of the bed. They were speckled with bumps and dark spots. She'd turned out the light beside the bed; flickering images from the television set were barely enough to illuminate suspicious blurs. CJ stared at one smudge, trying to decide if it was moving.

Sam was on the edge closest to the television, leaving her as much room as possible. He had needed no persuasion to opt for the bed rather than the floor, and had, as she expected, proved remarkably solicitous. As she adjusted the covers slightly, he stirred. "Is the noise bothering you?"

"Not at all." It was just loud enough for muted, familiar company in the darkness. She could easily be at home, trying not to notice how few hours stood between nodding off to the sound of the television and muttering dire threats at the alarm clock. "Sam, do you think there's a word for fear of silence?"

He flipped from the news to something with a laugh track. "I don't know. Antiacousticophobia? Why?"

She tucked the bedspread more snugly around her shoulder, and wondered whether Josh would believe her if she told him that she'd skipped his award so she could sleep with Sam. "Sometimes I don't like going home by myself."

He changed the channel again. "Me neither."

She mulled that over, then asked tentatively, "What about Mallory?"

He shrugged, as best he could laying on his side. "She's seeing a guy. A teacher at the school."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't be."

His tone was casual, and she wondered how far their relationship had progressed. Don't be coy Claudia Jean, she chided herself. So she wondered whether Sam had slept with the boss' daughter. That made her human, if somewhat nosy.

She was idly studying his back when he spoke again. "Do I get to ask you something personal now?"

Caught. "Sure. If you want."

He turned enough that he was flat on his back, his face toward her. She stifled a nervous laugh, wondering what he was about to spring on her.

Sam rolled towards the TV, and changed the channel again.

"Hey. I thought you were going to ask me something now."

"Nah."

He yelped as she slugged him on the shoulder.

"What's that for?" he demanded, turning back to her.

"I'm not interesting enough to play twenty questions with?" she demanded.

He let the remote slide to the mattress, and propped his head on one hand. "CJ, there's nothing I need to know about you."

She rolled her eyes.

"You don't go to movies, but you have a collection of Hepburn and Tracy on video."

She blinked at him, and he looked smug.

"You like dark beer, not light, and won't drink anything that has light spelled l-i-t-e anyway. You eat other people's french fries, and like chicken salad but not chicken salad. You look fabulous in emerald green, even standing on the side of the road yelling at my car."

"You can't help it, can you?"

"What?"

"Flirting."

He just flashed the patented Sam Seaborn smile. "You're beautiful, and you don't know it. You're good at what you do, and you don't let it go to your head. And you always land on your feet. When you aren't falling into pools." He closed his eyes against her playful swat.

"I was pushed. At least one of the times."

"See, I knew that. I know all of the important stuff." He picked up the remote again, and clicked off the television. "What do you want to know about me?"

She considered it seriously, tracing a circle on the thin, hard sheet with her forefinger. What did she want to know about Sam? "Are you a better Deputy Communications Director than you were a lawyer?"

He didn't hesitate. "No. I care too much about this."

She smiled to herself. Maybe she knew all the important stuff too.

The last traces of the television's glare faded from her eyes, and she could make out the silhouette of his body, framed by the sheet. He was still turned to her. Somehow she wasn't surprised when he leaned forward.

"You know CJ, we are sharing the same bed."

His expression was determinedly blank. She'd played poker with Sam before.

She closed the distance between them, and placed a light kiss on his nose. "Get over yourself."

He grinned good-naturedly.

*****

CJ was considering free sex. Not, she hastened to remind that obstinate voice that was playing devil's advocate in her head, that she'd ever paid for sexual relations. But no-strings-attached sex certainly had its appeal. Just carnal, sweaty, gratifying intercourse.

So she didn't know for sure that it would be gratifying. But somehow she didn't think that a lackluster sex life was the underlying cause for Sam's inability to hold a relationship for more than five minutes. Since she'd known him, anyway.

Was that the reason she'd turned him down cold? Not wanting to be a Sam Seaborn conquest?

Why shouldn't he play the field? He dressed nicely, his breath was sweet, and he was certainly attractive. Face it, Sam was not just handsome. He was striking. He was nearly pretty. Could she really sleep with someone prettier than herself?

You're beautiful and you don't know it.

Okay, he knew exactly what to say sometimes. But he was also impossibly young. Not that young. But younger than her. Idealism shed years from him better than clean living ever could.

Sam, she suspected, preferred only enough clean living to keep those who mattered from getting hurt.

Oh hell.

*****

"I changed my mind."

"Wuh?" The covers were bunched around his chest, and she tugged at them. His fingers closed, grasping at nothing as the sheet slipped away. He raised his head slightly.

"Samuel, wake up. I changed my mind."

"Your mind?" he repeated, still fuzzy.

"Coconut oil," she said distinctly.

His eyes widened, and he sat up further. "Really?"

"Yes. I mean no," she corrected herself. "I mean... I don't know what I mean. Except that I do."

When he moved, she expected his lips, or his hands maybe. But he kept going, almost past her, to rub his cheek along hers, a tentative friction. His skin was incredibly smooth; he'd shaved that evening, she thought. Sam always looked good.

And smelled good. She breathed in, tasting the musky remnants of his aftershave, letting him hear the catch in her throat as he followed the curve of her cheek with his own. When he spoke, it was a whisper in her ear.

"Are you sure now?"

Heat radiated from him, pushing back the cool blackness of the room, and she felt like she was drowning in it. She felt like drowning in it. There was probably some scientific explanation for the way he could just flip his pheromones on. The way he could, with the barest touch, make her dizzy with the unsettling realization that he was acutely male.

Maybe not so unsettling. Maybe very, very satisfying.

His lips were gentle, testing her intent, and she opened her own to receive him. His fingers brushed her cheek, temple, twined into her hair as she deepened the kiss. She echoed the motion, learning the line of his neck, the sharp edge of the shoulder arcing into knotted muscle at his upper arm.

CJ threaded her fingers through his, and Sam let her trap his arm against the pillow as he swept the other across her chest. With his forearm he charted a path across one breast, molding the fabric of the shirt to her skin. She forced herself not to crush his captive hand when his mouth touched the sensitive juncture at the base of her ear, just as he coaxed her nipple into a soft nub beneath his hand.

"What?" he asked, hearing her sharp intake of breath.

"You can multitask," she managed. "Handy."

In answer, he slid his other arm from her grasp. She let him go, moving her hands to his hips, urging him closer.

Sam kicked the covers away impatiently, and leveraged himself forward, straddling her. He helped her roll his t-shirt up, away from his torso and over his head. She grazed the tips of her fingernails down his chest as he let the shirt fall away; he smiled down at her as he dropped it.

"You look better in yours," he said softly.

"Flirting again." CJ slid her palms forward, skidding past the curve of his hip, resting for a moment at the obvious evidence of his intent. "I have, in my bag --"

He caught her hands. "Not yet. I promise. But I'm not done with you."

She smiled and let her hands fall away.

She heard her own heartbeat in her ears, mingled with the sound of his sharp, shallow breathing against her skin. As his tongue touched her chin, throat, the skin framed by the shirt's threaded collar, his hands started at the bottom, slipping past the hem to caress the curve of her belly. He rested there, feeling her body rise and fall under his touch, until she was nearly ready to cry or yell or growl in jagged anticipation.

He touched her with... reverence. It scared her silly, and stirred a quaking warmth somewhere she couldn't even begin to identify.

Except the obvious, of course. She'd barely begun to contemplate how to get the t-shirt, now bunched at the swell of her chest, off without tangling them both in it, when he pressed his thumb across her hip. Her underwear proved little barrier, thumb giving way to a single finger, and he could have no doubt how badly she wanted him to move further. Faster. Quicker.

He entered her with one finger, then two, sliding easily past the sensitive outer skin to fill her. She arched her hips against him, and he moved with her, drawing her up, then back.

CJ realized that she was biting the fabric crumpled at her chin, and chuckled into it. Sam raised his head, catching her gaze and sharing the smile. He helped her struggle out of the shirt. Just as it cleared her head, he lowered his mouth to her chest. First one nipple, then the other, teased by his tongue into hard, impatient points. She was left with the borrowed t-shirt dangling from one hand, her other arm clenching the rough sheets for balance.

At some point, she lost the shirt. She must have, because both hands were on his back, then his shoulders, as he traveled down her body. Finally she was left with only the touch of his smooth, short strands of hair between her fingers, as he nuzzled the line of her hip. He thumbed her underwear aside, then down, and she could think of nothing but the joy of his tongue dipping between her legs.

Clean living, she thought with some amusement. Clean living never left her quite this dizzy, quite this torn between pleasures.

"Sam." She dug her nails into the sheet, hardly able to turn the languid moan of his name into a command. "Sam."

He caught her eye, his fingers continuing their lazy trail across her thighs.

"Now, Sam."

"Which is closer," he asked, attempting a conversational tone. She was absurdly pleased to catch the ragged note of lost control in his voice. "My wallet or your bag?"

CJ turned her head, gratified to catch sight of her minuscule evening bag on the small table beside the bed. She fumbled towards it, then in it, until she grasped the battered packet lodged at the bottom. She sat up, reluctant to move further away from him, and tore it open. "Come here, you big flirt."

He did as she said, and CJ was surprised to discover that his hands, resting on her shoulders, were shaking as she peeled away his briefs. "Did I say big?" she teased, cupping him in her hand as he fumbled to discard the last of their clothing. "I meant enormous."

"I take back every nice thing I ever said about you," Sam groaned, as she ran her hand along the length of his erection.

"I'm not a flirt." She rolled the condom down, sheathing him. "I don't say things I don't mean."

"I meant every word." He claimed her lips for a long moment, until she raised her hips to his. He rocked back, and entered her.

Moving against him, tumbling into the shadow of his eyes, reveling in the pressure of him inside her, whispering to her. He moved with her, and she found harbor for her hands at the small of his back, her gentle pressure guiding him. He coaxed her to climax with him, until she lost track of any sensation except that final, shuddering release. Finally, knowing she'd be lost in the darkness without him, she folded him into her arms.

CJ dozed in his warmth, barely aware of the light trace of his fingers on her shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked, finally.

She resisted a satisfied, feline stretch of her muscles the length of his body. "Fine," she responded lightly. "More than fine. We should do this again sometime."

She felt him smile, and he ran his thumb across her lips, down her chin. "Does this mean you're going to use me for sex whenever you want?"

She met his gaze. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No." The smile broadened, a gleaming grin in the dark night of the room. "Just checking."


End file.
